A Willing Exchange

Nondescript, muffled sounds

Can penetrate cement and wood

And dirt, but silence dominates

This dank and dreary neighborhood.

Days are long and nights are frigid

Here where I’ve been laid to rest.

I slumber with my Purple Heart

And other medals across my chest.

How fickle life is! Good intentions

And dreams often come to naught.

Too late we learn the consequences

Of trusting all that we were taught.

Alas, the mighty powers that were

Had in mind a contrary plan.

They sent me off to fight their war

In the mountains of Afghanistan.

“When Johnny Comes Marching Home”: my buddies

And I would sometimes sing that song.

But fate presented a different plan

For my return all along.

I "marched" home, although my marching

Was somewhat a paradox:

I came home covered with medals

And lying in a flag-wrapped box.

Medals! Let the generals keep them. 

If I had a choice, I’d rather be

At home playing with my kids

And caring for my family.

-by Bob B (7-23-18)